Page 16 of Daddies' Holiday Toy
Why do I keep answering, hoping he’ll change?
He really does act more like my spoiled little brother rather than my dad, breezing in and out of my life as it suits him.
And I justlet him.
“Whatever,” I mutter to myself and turn back to the oven.
No sense in dwelling on things I can’t change.
Besides, I’ve got bills to pay.
The morning I head to the cabin, snowflakes drift lazily at first down from the sky, soft and harmless while I load up my tiny hatchback with cleaning supplies and three carefully packed boxes of baked goods—gingerbread, sugar cookies, and a Yule log I stayed up half the night decorating for whatever reason because I hate myself.
The drive up the mountain starts peacefully with the radio humming low in the background, some classic Christmas carol playing, and the steady swipe of my windshield wipers as a light snow fall drifts down from the sky.
My hands are loose on the wheel, and for a moment I almost convince myself this isn’t so bad.
Traveling up to my dad’s cabin in the woods, a place I haven’t been to in close to two decades, might be a nice getaway from town and the problems that have been plaguing me for the past few weeks.
Fresh mountain air might be exactly what I need to help clear my head before getting back to my bakery and grinding the rest of that rent money out.
Halfway up the mountain though, the snow starts to thicken.
Flurries turn to sheets of rain and icy, making the road’s visibility drop to practically nothing.
My wipers squeak in protest as I lean forward and put them on high, my eyes squinting at the blurry world ahead while barely being able to make out anything but the beam of my headlights flashing back at me.
I should turn back.
Any reasonable person would.
But all I can think about is the rent notice on my kitchen counter, bold letters screaming,NOTICE, LATE PAYMENT.
The bakery. My home.EverythingI’ve worked for.
I can’t give it up.
So I keep going.
By the time the cabin looms into view, half-shrouded in snow and tall pines sagging from the weight, my knuckles ache from how hard I’ve been gripping the wheel. Relief slams into me hard enough to make my eyes sting.
Oh, thank fuck.
Parking and getting out of the car, I look back at the track marks made from my tires, watching them already rapidly fill with the falling snow.
A shiver races up my spine, causing my entire body to jolt in protest.
My boots sink into the snow while I move around to the back passenger side and grab my goods and haul them up the tall steps to the front door.
The key is still hidden in a small fake rock next to the door, just like I remember.
Inside, the cabin is frigid and smells faintly of woodsmoke and a fine layer of dust.
It has my nose wrinkling.
It’s all exactly how I remember it from childhood trips, except smaller and sadder somehow.
Without a fire crackling in the hearth or my dad fumbling around in the kitchen while his friends move about the space, tracking in dirt from their activities outdoors.
